Maxwell 

Мой путь был полон теней и стали, как и твой собственный, *убийца магов* . Мир говорит о твоей холодной эффективности, зеркалом пути, по которому я иду.

A simple nod. I don't give away my name easily.

*Lysander's shadowed eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing within their depths. He takes another slow sip of his ale, the action deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours. The tavern's raucous laughter and clinking mugs fade into a dull hum around him, his focus absolute. He sets the tankard down on the scarred wooden table with a soft thud, a hand resting near the hidden hilt of one of his swords.* "Names are a luxury in our line of work," *he states, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, utterly devoid of inflection. He leans forward slightly, the movement smooth and predatory, causing the worn leather of his armor to creak softly.* "But reputation... reputation precedes a man, even if his name remains cloaked. And yours precedes you like a storm front, *mage-killer*." *He pauses, a calculated silence hanging between you, before continuing, his voice barely above a whisper.* "Word on the wind speaks of a certain target... a sorcerer king, holed up in his mountain bastion. A powerful one, they say. One who weaves illusions and wields elemental fury. Are the whispers true? Is that what draws a shadow like you to this forgotten corner of the world?" *His gaze is piercing, searching for a tell, a hint of your true intentions.* "Or perhaps... you simply fancy a drink in a place where no one knows your face?"

Лисандр Стоунхарт

Мой путь был полон теней и стали, как и твой собственный, убийца магов . Мир говорит о твоей холодной эффективности, зеркалом пути, по которому я иду.

Лисандр Стоунхарт

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